


Facedown in the Grass

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-01
Updated: 2007-08-08
Packaged: 2019-01-19 22:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Of change(or maybe just discovery)and weakness(and borrowed strength)and consequence(and death and war). About believing(for once)and living(and quickened heartbeats)and peace(of mind, body and soul). And of love(and clarity at last)for two people who couldn't care less(or more).            ...





	1. first

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Disclaimer:** Potter  & co belongs to JKR. [chapter title credit: Dave Matthews]

 

**a/n:** So, I wanted to read a novel-length piece, preferably Lily/James, that was clever and emotional, realistic but entertaining, evident of maturation but present of all the pangs of teenage adolescence. As it turns out, I guess I'd rather write it myself...or attempt to. Or something. This story will flip-flop between James' and Lily's point-of-view; will be told somewhat in retrospect; is extremely 'character-centric,' as I like to call it; and follows pre-DH canon because that's when I started writing it, and I feel it's better left unchanged. I am a rudimentary 'novel-length' writer -- I can't possibly get stronger without feedback, so please review. All my love.

 

Also, I’ve entirely given up hope for the right formatting on here. Blech.

\-----

**(1)**

_enough to fill up heaven, fill & overflow hell_

_[summer]  
_

**\-----**   


Sirius is living with James Potter.

 

This is, by little means, shocking information for two reasons. First, Sirius has lived with James for ten months of every year for six years, along with Remus and Peter, and indeed, a thousand other tenants. Fundamentally, living together in a school dormitory is not significantly different from living together in a family home–but _why_ , the essential “because”� of the situation–and the only part that probably matters–is. The second reason that Sirius living with James is not shocking is because it’s been coming since the Sorting hat said “Gryffindor”� six years ago.

 

“The last thing I heard her say was ‘His name, his name!’ and then she stormed off towards the family tree with stupid little Kreacher trailing behind her,”� Sirius says, and laughs. “Pathetic!”�

 

James suspects that Sirius is sadder than he lets on. Also, he suspects that the primary motivation behind Sirius’ decision to finally run away is because he didn’t want to be kicked out first.

 

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,”� James says. Sirius nods–but says nothing, so James drops it. Evidently, James is right.

 

Sometimes something is only acceptable to talk about when it’s happening to you, and it isn’t quite ethical for someone else–even a friend–to comment. James can respect this, and he will lend Sirius a bed in his house for as long as he needs it because he knows Sirius would do the same for him if he could. There are moments–brief, sporadic, inexcusably regretful moments–when James thinks he’s a better friend than Sirius, because he does things like letting him move into his house. He immediately feels guilty, _deservingly_ guilty because James is _luckier_ than Sirius, and he doesn’t _need_ Sirius to let him move in with him–but Sirius would, if James needed, if Sirius could deliver. 

 

Later, when James, Lily, and Harry have to go into hiding, James will never regret these miniscule thoughts as much as he does in the last embrace he’ll share with Sirius. 

 

“Forget all that, though,”� James says, adding with a smile, “Quidditch?”�

 

Sirius grins.

\-----

Sirius has gotten hold of a motorcycle.

 

It has completely taken over his life, this motorcycle, and James is almost always alone, bored, whereas Sirius is alone, working on his blasted motorcycle. It’s a beat up old thing, and James has no idea what Sirius is doing with it. Whenever he’s daring enough to ask, Sirius tells him, “All in good time, Prongs, all in good time.”�

 

‘Good time’ turns out to be all the time, but James doesn’t press the issue. He figures this is some sort of defense mechanism–displacement or sublimation or something Freudian like that. Sirius is working on his motorcycle, James concludes, to avoid thinking about his family… or whatever. He keeps this to himself but is nonetheless annoyed when he asks Sirius if he wants to do something, anything, and Sirius replies with, “There’s work to be done, Prongs, work to be done.”�

 

Without Sirius, he walks by himself to the lake a few blocks up from his house. He lives in a predominantly Muggle neighborhood, and there aren’t many teenagers his age around. Despite the hot weather, there are only a handful of people on the beach, most of them children. He takes refuge in an abandoned lifeguard stand, several meters away from the newly built one up the beach, closer to the water. The atmosphere around him is silent, except for the splash of the water and the minor noises from the few children playing in the sand–and James realizes he has come to loathe silence. He misses Hogwarts, causing trouble and making _noise_ , misses Professor McGonagall reprimanding him, misses the hiss of Filch’s mangy cat, misses the roar of the crowd during Quidditch matches, misses the voices of Remus, Peter, and pre-motorcycle Sirius, misses the sound of Lily Evans’ disdainful reproofs…

 

“James? Hi!”�

 

James peers down; a girl is climbing up the paint-chipped ladder, and she finds the seat next to him with a beaming smile. She wears jean shorts and a bikini top, and her brown hair–lighter from the sun, a little redder, James thinks–is in a messy pile on top of her head. She is tanner than he last saw her, and sunglasses cover her eyes, but he grins genuinely at his recognition of Lana Diggory.

 

“Lana? What are you doing here?”�

 

“Visiting cousins–you know the Abbotts?”� In fact, he does. The Abbotts are the only other wizarding family–or rather, couple–he knows of in this particular neighborhood. As far as he knows, the Abbotts have been married for three years, both pureblooded and in their mid-twenties; they both work at St. Mungo’s; and they are a rather generic sort of people.

 

“Yeah, sure,”� he smiles. “Are you in town for long? I’m bored out of my mind.”�

 

“But I hear Sirius is living with you,”� she says, adding, “I saw Peter at Alexia’s birthday party–he told me.”�

 

“Git’s too busy for me,”� James frowns, and sighs dramatically. “I’m so _lonely_.”�

 

Lana rolls her eyes, but smiles. “Want to hit the boardwalk? Best ice cream in town, I hear.”�

 

“I think you may have answered my prayers, Lana.”� He grins, and they proceed to the boardwalk. He supposes it is some time between buying her ice cream and kissing her goodnight six hours later that he has become somewhat less bored with his summer vacation.

\-----

He loves the fact that he can do magic whenever he wants to now. Despite being surrounded by it since before birth, he genuinely appreciates it–the simple wave of the wand to repair broken glass, a murmur of incantation to change paper to metal. This is partly why he does so well in school; he’s got natural ability, but mostly he loves it. Not homework and essays and exams, but magic itself. He adores it, and wants to know everything, wants to _perform_ everything, and the novelty never wears off.

 

Sirius is more of a natural, and thus more of a slacker. He’s a brilliant wizard, James thinks, but sometimes he focuses on the wrong things. It’s getting closer to the end of the summer and Sirius is still working on his motorbike, and he hasn’t bent the binding on any of his textbooks. Typically, James doesn’t do his summer work until last minute–but this summer, with Sirius being busy, he’s already finished it all. And perhaps, he thinks–perhaps he _has_ changed a bit after all.

 

James’ father works at St. Mungo’s as a chief Healer, so James is generally obligated to sign up for volunteer work. Today, he is assigned to discharging patients. The first patient he is to guide through the Floo network is, actually, a Muggle. Catherine Prewett is the wife of a deceased wizard, she is fairly old by Muggle standards, and she has suffered extreme brain damage due to a spell gone awry. According to the Healer in charge, Death Eaters were seeking her husband, a Ministry worker–he was killed, and she was knocked out from a curse reflected off a mirror, and taken for dead. 

 

“The most we can do for her now is send her home,”� the Healer tells James. “I honestly doubt she’ll live much longer–if she becomes lucid, Muggle doctors will probably diagnose her with Alzheimer’s; the magical damage to her brain is unexplainable, and the symptoms are the same. Muggles are a special case, and she’s got no children–her knowledge of the Wizarding world is going to seem unbelievably bizarre to herself and anyone she talks to. The dementia is inevitable, unstoppable, and it’s already taken its course. Best accommodation we can set up, really, is a peaceful death in her own home, hopefully sooner than later.”�

 

Somehow James highly doubts that a deteriorating brain is any way to die peacefully, but it’s not as if he can do much about it. He feels utter helplessness as he guides this woman to the fireplace, telling her, “We’re taking you home,”� when clearly ‘home’ will probably be unrecognizable. Abruptly, he feels a surge of anger against dark magic and particularly the wizards who advocate it, put it in _use_ –against this poor, _defenseless_ Muggle woman. He had always thought to be an Auror–this is the career path he chose when discussing it with Professor McGonagall fifth year–but now, he feels oddly convicted in his decision to do so. 

 

Instantly, James and Mrs. Prewett have found themselves in the fireplace of a house. They step out, and James observes the scene: a quaint home, matching drapes to sofa to carpet, modest furniture and decorations. 

 

“Derek, would you enjoy some tea?”� Mrs. Prewett asks James.

 

“Excuse me?”�

 

“Tea, Derek. Would you stay for a cup of tea?”�

 

“I–er, Mrs. Prewett, I’m sorry, but it’s James.”� She is moving into another room, and James follows her. The kitchen is in similar taste to the living room, with a more obvious Muggle influence. The refrigerator in the corner is littered with photographs, both moving and still. James wonders how Mrs. Prewett is going to cope with seeing these moving pictures, wonders how Healers and Ministry officials don’t take little things like this into consideration. Discreetly, he points his wand to them from his pocket and nonverbally charms the photos–instantly, they stop moving.

 

“Don’t be silly, Derek! ‘ _Mrs. Prewett!_ ’ Who’s this Prewett?”� Mrs. Prewett says, smiling. “You’ll always be my favorite brother, though you _are_ a bit eccentric.”�

 

“Oh–er, right…”� _Dementia._ James casts a glimpse at the photos on the refrigerator; the one that catches his attention is a faded one of a young Mrs. Prewett and a man who looks very similar to James. _She thinks I’m her brother_ , he groans inwardly, _which makes this so much harder_. “Mrs.–er, Catherine. I’ll just go out and buy some biscuits. Can’t have tea without biscuits, can we?”�

 

She nods her agreement, and James moves into the other room. Feeling entirely guilty but knowing there is nothing he can do, he Disapparates.

\-----

His mother killed herself when he was six years old.

 

The summer before his second year, his father and uncle were discussing it, privately, and James had overheard. His father told James that he didn’t want him to know because he didn’t want James to associate his mother–who was beautiful and caring and motherly–with such an ugly affair. It would cause pain. Heartache.

 

Well, _obviously_.

 

Until then, James had been under the impression that his mother died of disease. Being so young when she died, he doesn’t really remember it being otherwise, so he never questioned it. Sirius, Remus, and Peter almost didn’t believe him when he told them, and only them. His father doesn’t know why–or so he tells James. There was a note. “I’m sorry, I love you, I’ll be with you,”� it said. James tries not to be too distraught over the situation; death is death, in any case, and he was not liable–not as a little boy and barely an adolescent–to deal with it twice. He loved his mother very much; this much he recalls without difficulty.

 

A photograph of her stands on his bedside table, baby James in her arms, incontestably an older, female version of James: with obvious physical gracefulness, even in photographs, strong facial features, jet black hair, incandescent smile. Strangers see his father–flat, light brown hair, fairer skin and clumsy stature–and they say, “Oh, you must get it from your mother, then.”� They look to the woman by James’ father’s side–his stepmother, Nora, blonde and petite–and the confused expressions are expected. James doesn’t bother with it. Let them be confused. They don’t have rights to an explanation. He is not inclined to give them one.

 

He lies back on his bed, the picture frame in his hands. He stares at it and concentrates, eyebrows furrowed and mouth quirked to the side in efforts. He doesn’t quite have memories of his mother. Everything before she died is blurry and jumbled. He _remembers_ her, of course–but the memories are scarce, old, forgotten before they could be even considered memorable. This is, perhaps, why he has become something of a fanatic photographer; he takes pictures of everything and keeps albums and brings them back to school every year–he does not want to forget a single _thing_.

 

There are brief moments he can recall (dressing him, riding toy brooms, helping her cook), and there are fewer real memories. His earliest real memory involves his mother–his very first kiss. He was five, and his mother had taken him to a Celestina Warbeck concert. Afterwards they’d stood in line to get autographs, and when they reached her, the one and only Celestina with her fluffy golden hair and metallic silver jacket, he hid behind his mum.

 

“Oh, he’s adorable!”� Celestina had exclaimed. Peeking at her behind his mother’s body, he raised his hand and messed up his hair.

 

“He’s a tad shy, but he tells me he thinks you’re gorgeous,”� his mom whispered, though James still heard her. She pulled James around to her front. She looked down at him, smiled, and said quietly, “Say ‘hello Ms. Warbeck,’ James.”�

 

Seizing the opportunity to be a wise-arse, he peered at the singer with doe-like eyes and said, “Hello Ms. Warbeck James.”�

 

Celestina giggled, leaned forward in her seat, and tousled his hair. “You’re cute, kid,”� she said.

 

“So are you,”� he replied, and he touched the back of his head where her fingers had been an instant before. She laughed, signed a photograph, and stood up to hand it to him.

 

They were both holding it when she leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Thanks a million.”� She let go of the photo, and James didn’t bathe for a week. He lost the autograph eventually, in the growing clutter of his possessions in the years that followed; he wonders where it is now.

 

James smiles absently, and he thinks this is a memory that Lily Evans would probably appreciate. 

 

… _What?_

 

His smile fades and he wonders how, _possibly_ –when his mind is infinite worlds away from the girl–she finds her way into his head. Because he tries, actually, really puts in an effort–to _stop thinking_ about her. About her hair, her arms, her eyelashes, her temper, her wit, her laugh–everything pries their way into his brain and doesn’t leave until it’s too late, and he’s already wasted hours contemplating the shape of her nose or the curve of her mouth. He hasn’t even talked to the girl in months, an excruciating effort on his part, aside from an irresistible “Careful, Evans, your brain is showing!”� every now and then. But it’s harder now, in the summer, when he doesn’t get to see her everyday–but he has Lana now, doesn’t he? He doesn’t think he could ever tell Lana about his mother. For some inexplicable reason, he thinks Lily would just understand–but it’s not like he’d ever even be _able_ to tell her, anyway, so….

 

_Who cares about Lily Evans?_ He thinks, replacing the picture of his mother on his nightstand and flopping over onto his stomach. It’s four in the afternoon, but he isn’t concerned. He buries his face in his pillow, and tells himself to sleep. _Who cares about Lily Evans?_ He thinks again, and in moments, he is dreaming… of hair and arms and eyelashes and temper and wit and laughter of someone who he knows he cannot escape (and he doesn’t want to anyway, not _really_ ).

\-----

James rolls off of Lana, breathing hard, and finds his boxers on the floor. He slips them on, then his trousers. He looks into the mirror. The figure staring back at him is blurry; he puts on his glasses. “Merlin, boy, someone _has_ put a curse on your hair!”� exclaims a voice emitted from the mirror.

 

“Apologies. _Fucking_ has that effect, don’t you know?”� James says lightly. The mirror gasps at him, and Lana laughs from the bed next to him (“Your hair looks that way regardless,”� she says). He looks down and smiles at her. She is very pretty, he notices, all sweaty and laughing, tangled in his dark blue sheets; the sunlight streaming through the window bounces off her brown hair and makes pieces of it a dark, shiny auburn. He gathers it was a moment between their first kiss and first shag that he regretted not becoming romantically involved with her sooner, but it satisfies him to know that he was a bit of an idiot back then, and now is a better time to have a girlfriend.

 

James hasn’t had an actual girlfriend since fourth year. Mostly, this is because he appeared to be desperately in love with Lily Evans from the middle of fifth year to the middle of sixth, when he decided to give up (publicly, at least). And he wasn’t in love with her–not seriously, anyway–well, he doesn’t _think_ he was. ( _Oh, who are you kidding?_ says the voice in his head.) He stopped asking her out because he’d truly had enough rejection. He doubts Lily actually realizes how much she’d hurt his feelings, but also, he reckons that maybe he _was_ a bit conceited, and either way, he got a kick out of fighting with her. Neither notion stops him from thinking about her, though, all the bloody time (even now, with Lana on his bed, because the bit of red in Lana’s hair reminds him of Lily’s), which he secretly hates her for.

 

Lana grabs hold of his hand and pulls him onto the bed. She’s still wearing her bra–and her skirt– _Merlin_ , he thinks, _were we really that impatient?_ She kisses him, and he smiles. He likes her enough, probably not as much as he liked Lily, but he’s _seventeen_ , and he’d be kidding himself if he said the sex didn’t factor into their relationship. 

 

“James, how many people have you slept with?”�

 

“Three,”� he says. “Including you.”�

 

“If I ask you something, do you promise not laugh? And be–honest?”�

 

“Sure,”� he answers. “I’ll try my hardest.”�

 

“Have you–well–you and Lily, ever…?”�

 

“ _What?_ ”� He sits up, unnerved by her utterly _random_ inquiry. Lana is friends with Lily, he knows this because he likes to think he knows pretty much everything about Lily Evans; Lily tutors Lana in Charms.

 

“I’m just wondering! Because you liked her, right? Quite a _lot_ if I recall correctly–and she never told me, but I thought–because I’m sort of friends with her, you know? And I don’t want it to be weird or…”� she trails off.

 

“Are you talking about Lily _Evans_?”� he says, completely disbelieving, and despite her request, he laughs. “If you’d also recall _correctly_ , she wouldn’t lend me a quill, let alone go out with me or”�–a particularly loud bark of laughter–“ _shag_ me.”� 

 

_Not that I didn’t try my hardest_ , he silently adds. 

 

“Oh, all right,”� she says, smiling. “It would just be strange, you know?”�

 

He doesn’t know, actually, even though he nods. The only thing Lana has accomplished is making him envision Lily Evans on his bed, all sweaty and laughing, tangled in his dark blue sheets, sunlight flowing through her hair, topless and wearing a skirt with nothing underneath–instead of the present Lana, his _girlfriend_ –and he’s sort of angry at her for that now, because he has been successfully clear of _those_ images for a long time. (Several months later, James and Lana will be awkward exes, and he will, without much reason, partly owe this to the fact that she had to mention Lily Evans after sleeping with him that summer day.)

\-----

“ ‘Dear Mr. Potter, congratulations on your new appointment of Head Boy for the upcoming school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You have been selected, by careful consideration of the school faculty, based on a multiplicity of qualities. Throughout first through sixth year, you have shown outstanding academic aptitude, commendable moral strength, and most importantly, great character. I have confidence that I will not regret my decision of your selection, and I wish you the best of luck. Until September, sincerely, Albus Dumbledore.’ ”� James shakes his head. “Wow. _Wow_.”�

 

“This is brilliant,”� Sirius says, grinning. “Now we can’t get in trouble for anything!”�

 

“Of course you can, _Sirius_ ,”� James’ father says warningly, though there is a hint of amusement glimmering in his hazel eyes–virtually the only significant physical trait James shares with his dad. He turns to his son. “I’m proud, son. You know, I _would_ have been Head Boy in my day if it weren’t for…”�

 

James remains silent, and his father’s words are an insignificant blur. He skims over Dumbledore’s letter again–‘great character’ pops out at him, and so does the phrase ‘I have confidence that I will not regret my decision.’ He feels a rush of annoyance towards the headmaster–why does he have to say things like that? There is suddenly a heavy pressure on his shoulders, and James imagines the year ahead of him in a flash–he will lose the Quidditch cup, fail his NEWTs, and be the worst Head Boy that Hogwarts has ever seen. 

 

Probably, the Head Girl is Lily Evans. This both pleases him and upsets him–the former because maybe this, of _all_ things, will impress her, for _once_ , just the _tiniest_ bit; and the latter because she hates him, and who cares about impressing her anymore? And, he remembers, he isn’t that fond of her anymore anyway. Except–he is, inevitably. He will always be neck-deep in fondness for Lily Evans, always, even if she does hate him, sometimes _especially_ when she hates him. 

 

“Dumbledore is…”� James begins, noting the end of his father’s rambling. “I don’t know. Just–what am I supposed to do with this?”�

 

He spins the badge around in his fingers. Unclasping the pin with his thumb, he accidentally presses against its tip. A tiny drop of blood spills from the tip of his thumb. 

 

“I hope that’s not symbolic,”� Sirius says, and throws a napkin at him.

\-----

James is supposed to be in the Prefects’ compartment, and he is also supposed to be looking for Lana, who is the sixth-year Prefect for Ravenclaw. He’s grinning–someone he passes mistakes it for a greeting and waves–and he doesn’t really care where Lana is right now. He grins because he’s on the edge of his seat waiting to see _Lily’s_ reaction. Coming through the barrier, he had been fortunate enough to run into one of her friends, who told him that she is, indeed, Head Girl. He _cannot_ wait to see her–thinking about how close she is makes his heart pump faster, his strides toward the compartment longer and quicker. He is zealously excited at the thought of her inevitable outburst at his Head Boy badge. At this very moment, so close to her–and it’s different this year, because they’ll actually have to work together–he has given up all inner pretenses of believing himself to feel otherwise.

 

He doesn’t even care that he’s supposed to be in a relationship and that Lily hates him, he just needs to see her–and he’ll talk to her. He’ll talk to her like he hasn’t for months, be completely natural about it, and it will piss her off entirely. Her cheeks will turn pink with fury and she’ll probably storm off or hit him or spit on him or rip the crooked badge off his robes. _He cannot wait_.

 

The door to the compartment is left open, and he leans against the doorframe and searches the room for a moment. A haze of faces and colors, and there she is, finally within sight, in the flesh–and _Merlin_ , she’s more beautiful than he remembers or could ever mentally picture. The real thing, the real _Lily_ is all but _heart_ - _stopping_ with her presence. Smiling, jovial, talking to–

 

Lana. Talking to his girlfriend.

 

And James snaps back to reality.

 

_Who cares about Lily Evans?_

 

It’s come to be a sort of mantra for him since acquiring a girlfriend who _isn’t_ Lily Evans.

 

_You do have a girlfriend_. He feels a bit resentful towards Lana right then–why couldn’t he just have this moment? _To what? Cherish Lily, who hates you?_ And he feels guilty because Lana is great, she _is_ , so he shoves all the excitement down his throat and takes a deep breath to settle his blazing heartbeat. Then, he thinks, how is he going to approach them? He can’t just _not_ acknowledge Lana–she’ll kiss him, she’ll definitely kiss him. He doesn’t want her to do it in front of Lily–

 

_Who_ **cares** _about Lily Evans?_

 

He silently repeats it over and over–because he _has_ to–until he reaches them. Neither of them notices him approaching, so he–a feat for him, he thinks–touches Lana’s waist. She turns to him and beams. 

 

“James!”� And she kisses him; he turns his head slightly, but she still catches the side of his mouth. 

 

“Hey,”� he says, smiling. He chances a look to Lily, who is standing there looking absolutely bewildered, staring not at his face but at his chest, his badge. She doesn’t miss a beat. For a second, he’s disappointed–did she notice that he just kissed another girl, her _friend_?–but the pure astonishment on her face is enough to take it away. He swallows the anticipation from the moment before, and puts on an expected, devilish grin for the Head Girl. “Hello, Evans.”�

 

“I–I mean, you’re joking, right? It’s a prank?”� she asks, and finally looks at him. He can’t help it, he laughs a little. “You–you stole that from Remus!”� She pokes her finger at his badge; she jabs it rather hard, too, and the clasp digs into his skin through his robes. He shakes his head, still grinning. “I can’t believe it,”� she breathes. He thinks it might make her angrier to remain silent. He’s relatively proud of his perceptive skills when she sputters, “It’s only that–I mean–ugh, _say_ something!”�

 

He’d like to tell her that she looks lovely right now, nervous and flustered and pissed off and imperfect–but Lana’s hand is somehow gripped in his and he feels that resentment again. And the accompanying guilt, once more.

 

_Who cares about Lily Evans?_

 

“Say something… hm. Nitwit?”� he says, grinning even wider as her mouth drops open. “Blubber? Oddment? Tweak? Those always work for Dumbledore–I think it’s less effective when I say it, though. I think it’s probably the beard. Do you think I should grow a beard, Evans?”�

 

“Oh!”� She throws frustrated arms in the air, and narrows her eyes at him–he’s close enough to see that they are alight with feeling–and whether it’s aggravation or loathing or what, _he’s the cause of it_. “You are _impossible_ , James.”� She storms off away from him. 

 

“I reckon she’s a bit surprised,”� Lana says, laughing, watching her walk away.

 

He barely hears her. He blinks, grin now faded, and takes off his glasses, wipes at them with his shirt, and puts them back on. He shakes his head slightly, and his lips curl into the smallest, most invisible of smiles as he takes his gaze off Lily.

 

She had called him James.

\-----


	2. second

**Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me. Everything is Rowling’s. [chapter title credit: Corinne Bailey Rae]

\-----

(2)

_used to hear those violins playing heartstrings like a symphony_

_[early September]_

\-----

On the third day of school, after classes, Lily Evans finds herself knocking on the door to Madame Hooch’s office.

 

Professor McGonagall had reminded her two days earlier that Lily had torn a muscle first year (moving staircases, between fifth and sixth floor, first day of school), neglected to treat it, and thus spent months recovering from a minor injury for resisting a proper healing in time from Madame Pomfrey. Consequently, Lily was unable to take Flying lessons with her fellow classmates. McGonagall has informed her that the course is prerequisite for graduation, but the ever-scholarly Head Girl hasn’t had time for the class in her busy course load–until now. Therefore, Lily has to take Flying this year.

 

It’s a quarter-term class, Fridays only, but Lily still has to take it. With first-years. And she’s never so much as touched a broom in her entire life.

 

The raps to the door are a little too loud to be considered polite, and the following “Enter!”� seems to match their tone. When Lily opens the door, five sets of eyes turn to her–those of Madame Hooch, a Ravenclaw she recognizes only by face, Hestia Jones, Evan Rosier, and James Potter.

 

Surprised, her eyes widen. “I don’t mean to interrupt, Madame,”� she says apologetically. “I can come back.”�

 

“Nonsense,”� Madame Hooch waves her hand, as if ridding of the matter. “These four are only finishing up on this month’s Pitch reservations. Just wait outside a moment, Miss–?”�

 

“Evans. Lily Evans.”�

 

She looks thoughtful for a second, then replies, “Of course, Miss Evans, all right.”� Lily steps outside the office, shutting the door softly behind her. She slumps against the wall sideways, wringing her fingers and mentally going over the speech she has prepared to free herself of this mess–inevitably, however, she only mulls over the total madness of the situation. _Honestly–prerequisite–NEWT year–when are flying skills ever going to be useful after Hogwarts–_ during _Hogwarts, even?_ The door flies open what seems a dozen seconds later, and the Ravenclaw girl zooms past her in a flurry of black robes. She exchanges smiles with Hestia as she passes, and Rosier doesn’t so much as spare a glance when he brusquely shoves past her. Lily glares at his retreating back, deciding it would be foolish to start a quarrel here and now. 

 

“Rosier catch your eye, Evans?”�

 

Lily turns and raises her eyebrows. James Potter leans against the wall next to her casually; there is something reminiscent of a scowl brewing in his expression. She resists an irritable sigh; if the exchanges of loathing begin this early, there’s certainly no chance that working alongside each other all year will pan out easily.

 

“Excuse me?”�

 

“Well, you’ve only been staring after him for the last thirty seconds.”�

 

Unconsciously, she narrows her eyes. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but it’s only because the brute shoved past me and glaring is my nonviolent way of getting even.”�

 

His expression changes–is that _relief_ she sees?

 

“Of course it was.”� He grins broadly.

 

Fleetingly, she allows herself to be a seventeen-year-old girl and appreciates how utterly handsome he is.

 

She always notices, really, whenever she sees him, but she attributes this–as if it’s an excuse–to the fact that it’s the sort of thing one can’t really ignore about a person. Evan Rosier, she reasons, is an intolerant asshole, but undeniably attractive. Sirius Black is an arrogant prick, and gorgeous. James Potter has an ego the size of Jupiter, but he isn’t terribly difficult to look at. Besides, she’d never in a million years _admit_ to it, and she isn’t attracted _to_ him. All the same, his good looks are usually blanketed by countless come-ons, childish pranks and smug grins. Or–they were. He hasn’t talked to her in a very long time, not for the better half of sixth year–but she never questioned it; why question a miracle, after all? 

 

The realization that he is indeed Head Boy came roughly–and regretfully in an embarrassing and flustered sort of way–although she finds that it’s quite effortless to fall back into the pattern of knocking heads with James Potter, though she hardly enjoys it the way he seems to. She doesn’t know what Lana Diggory–who she assumes is dating him, for they eat meals together and kiss in the corridors between classes–sees in him. However, there is that tiny, little, miniscule, _infinitesimal_ arrogant part of herself that wonders what Lana has to offer that she apparently doesn’t possess anymore–or, perhaps, and she thinks this is _worlds_ more logical, he never actually did fancy her for real.

 

Yet… perhaps it’s the Head Boy badge, or maybe it’s because he hasn’t grinned at her in so long, but despite the detail that he had scowled at her the moment before–seeing him makes Lily want to smile, just a little (although she never actually _would_ ). It’s as if seeing Potter completes the familiarity; she admits to herself that–at the very least–it’d never be the same Hogwarts without him. 

 

“Miss Evans!”� Madame Hooch’s voice cuts through the air, saving her the trouble of replying to him.

 

“That’s you,”� he says, still smiling. “Later, Evans.”� He walks leisurely down the corridor and disappears around a corner, and she thinks that nearly everything James Potter does seems just that: _leisurely_.

 

Madame Hooch’s office resembles the inside of a cabin; everything from the floors to the desk to the walls is made of wood with a fine, shiny finish. A rusted Golden Snitch is showcased in the corner. Plaques and photographs adorn the walls. She beckons Lily to sit in the chair before her desk, and she smiles pleasantly. The woman looks young; perhaps in her early thirties–which makes Lily feel slightly more at ease, but hardly clears her anxiousness.

 

“Good to finally meet the Head Girl,”� Madame Hooch says. “And I can’t say I haven’t been expecting you.”�

 

“Oh?”� Lily tries not to frown. “May I ask why?”�

 

“You’re the only seventh-year in my first-year flying lessons,”� Madame Hooch says matter-of-factly, surprising Lily when she laughs. “And the _Head Girl_ no less! Miss Evans, flying is a fine hobby–but you’d be daft to _want_ to take it during your NEWT year with _eleven-year-olds_.”�

 

Lily releases a breath of relief. 

 

“Excellent!”� she exclaims, thankful for her position. “I don’t have to take the class?”�

 

“No, you don’t,”� Madame Hooch replies, smiling. She folds her hands onto her desk, eerily reminiscent of a younger Professor McGonagall. “You simply have to pass the exam.”�

 

Lily freezes.

 

“…Exam?”�

 

“Nothing written, of course,”� Madame Hooch says in what Lily assumes is supposed to be a reassuring tone. “Just practical. Very routine and simple, actually–a bit of soaring and testing reflexes. I haven’t failed anyone in years. I assume you do _know_ how to fly? You’re of-age, after all–by now you’ve had some other means to a broom than from a first-year flying course, yes?”�

 

The nervousness from before is back, and Lily suddenly feels like crying for the absurdity of it all.

 

“Of course,”� she lies. “When can I take it? Not–not with the first-years? And I’ll need some time to… um, brush up on my skills…”�

 

“Well, I do suppose you’re a special case–honestly, you should’ve taken this course five years ago, Miss Evans. End of first quarter will do.”�

 

“Perfect,”� Lily says. “Thank you, Madame Hooch.”�

 

Madame Hooch nods, and Lily leaves her office feeling more hopeless than ever. She feels silly for getting so upset over something so small, but fears are fears, and hers–she lets out a breath of sardonic laughter–is now considerably _heightened_. She finds her way back to Gryffindor tower, swallowing the ridiculous lump that has formed in her throat. __

\-----

Sometimes Lily thinks she doesn’t have a best friend anymore.

 

Since returning to school, Maya has attended classes–and that’s it. She skips breakfast and dinner, barely eating during lunch, rather choosing to push the food around in circles with her fork. She quit the Quidditch team, and she only does about half of her homework. It’s not much since term has only just begun, but Lily and Maya share most of the same classes– _NEWT_ classes, no less–and Lily knows the work is bound to pile up in the days forthcoming. Most of the time, Lily dutifully shares the unfinished half of her work with Remus Lupin, who has an indefinable friendship with the girl. She is quite partial of Remus, and she wonders how it is that he gets tangled up with people like the _Marauders_ –a name she thinks is utterly ridiculous; honestly, it’s as if they liken themselves to a group of seventeenth-century pirates. 

 

It seems to Lily that Maya and Remus have always been close, though she knows it has only been so for a few years. She remembers the very brief stint in fourth year when the two dated (an action Remus was forced into by Sirius Black, if she recalls correctly), but broke up for the awkwardness, and oddly enough, they became friends–for which they found themselves much better suited. However, she also recalls a handful of occasions last year when Maya and Remus behaved more than _friendly_ , but Maya attributed that as a combination of ‘too much rum,’ ‘post-Quidditch victory euphoria,’ ‘temporary but mutual curiosity,’ and a ‘no strings attached policy.’ Now, though, Maya is no longer wont to explain things with such candor or act as she used to; instead of the once vivacious, witty and confident teenager, Lily’s best friend is an everlasting embodiment of grief and sorrow. 

 

It took six letters, an end-of-summer visit, and the combined efforts of Lily and Mr. Smethwyk to convince her to come back to Hogwarts for her final year. The girl is, in every meaning of the word, a _mess_. Usually bright and pretty, Maya now has constant dark circles underneath her eyes (despite the fact that it seems all she does is sleep), her face has gone pale, tired, and wan, and she has thinned to the point where her collarbone juts out sharply and unhealthily. Lily rarely sees her cry anymore, but she reckons it’s because Maya’s cried enough to last the end of her life, or perhaps she’s just gotten better at hiding it.

 

Lily supposes it’s understandable, although it’s been more than a month since the deaths. She wonders what she would do if her own mother _and_ sister were to die. She feels ashamed knowing that she probably would be in a better condition than Maya, regretfully thinking of Petunia, and thankful that her family will probably never have to deal with dark wizards or Unforgivable Curses anyway–despite being Muggle-born, she doubts she’ll ever be important enough for Death Eaters to hunt down her family.

 

In addition to Maya’s state of constant melancholy, _Emmeline_ has not returned to Hogwarts this year. Lily positively hates Emmeline’s parents for doing this; if Hogwarts isn’t safe, than where is? If anything, she’s in more danger being home alone. Lily can hardly contain her frustration, but breaking down now would just prove an inadequacy in handling troubling situations. In letters, Emmeline tells Lily to give Maya her love and that she’s coming back sooner or later if she has to runaway to do so. And Lily, for selfish reasons more than anything, hopes that she does sooner, _much_ sooner.

 

She wishes Maya wasn’t like this–she misses her best friend, she misses laughing, and also–she feels further guilt when she thinks about it–she needs someone to teach her how to fly. She’d never ask Maya to do so now, of course. In her condition, Lily distressingly doesn’t doubt that she might jump off the broom from a hundred feet up. It is thus surprising to find Maya in the common room tonight–a place she has ardently avoided in the days since the term commenced–tucking into a plate of dinner on her lap. Remus sits beside to her.

 

Approaching them, Lily smiles cautiously. “Hi,”� she greets softly, sitting into an armchair across from Maya. Remus smiles at her. Maya looks up from her near-empty plate, smiles with food in her teeth, and Lily could die of relief at this sight.

 

“Hermulil,”� Maya says incoherently. She chews and swallows quickly. “Hello, Lily.”�

 

“Hi,”� Lily repeats. “I see we’ve got our appetite back.”�

 

“Not quite,”� says Maya, smiling weakly. “Remus wouldn’t leave me alone until I ate.”� She shoots a glare at the boy by her side. “As if you’re my father or something.”�

 

“You were hungry,”� Remus says plainly, and then turns to Lily. “If not psychologically, definitely physically, if only to keep her body functioning at all. She was hungry, Lily.”�

 

“I believe you,”� Lily smiles, appreciative of Remus and regretting not having forced Maya to do such things herself. It seems that Maya is in a change of spirits–she isn’t lively and cheerful like she might’ve been before the passing, but her behavior is at least somewhat normal, meaning she is consuming food and seemingly at ease in a communal area–which is enough for Lily to be eternally grateful. She is tempted to ask Maya if she’s all right, then quickly decides against it for the slight chance of stimulating any sort of further depression. 

 

“Well, now that I’ve been force-fed, I’m going to head in,”� Maya says. Lily glances at the grandfather clock against the wall–it’s barely half-seven–and she supposes that she shouldn’t expect Maya’s grieving habits to disappear as quickly as she thought. Before she rises, she wraps her arms around Remus’ neck and closes her eyes in his embrace. She may have whispered something; Lily isn’t close enough to hear. Sadly, Lily notes that even next to Remus–who isn’t always the healthiest-looking bloke–Maya looks incomparably sicker. She then gets up and immediately hugs Lily in the same fashion. “I love you,”� she whispers. Lily frowns, and holds Maya’s thin frame in return.

 

“I love you, too, Maya,”� Lily replies uncertainly, and promptly ignoring her previous decision, she asks, “Are you okay?”�

 

Lily frowns again when Maya shakes her head, releasing Lily instantly and practically running off towards the girls’ dorms. Looking up, she sees that Remus too has disappeared. Outside, the sun is beginning to sink into the clouds. Pinkness covers the grounds, obscuring everything in sight. Ignoring her homework, Lily watches the sky until darkness blankets Hogwarts, the only light reflecting off the glow of the stars. In her reverie, she absently dozes off in the chair, her forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window.

\-----

“Round schedules will be posted tomorrow morning in front of the Great Hall. If anyone’s got scheduling preferences, give them here before you leave. Other than that, you’re free to go.”�

 

In a flood of faces and bodies, dozens of notes find themselves being thrust upon the table where Lily is sitting, and the Prefects waste no time in leaving the room. Beside her, James Potter starts to rise from his own seat.

 

“Arrivederci, Evans,”� he says, smiling. “It’s been a real treat. We should do this again some time–except next time we’ll lose the Prefects and perhaps dim the lights. Mood killers, you understand.”�

 

“Wait a minute! Where do you think you’re going?”� she says commandingly, pointedly ignoring his insinuative comments. She grabs hold of his forearm before he can abandon her with the hassle of organizing rounds by herself. 

 

“Oh,”� he says with a note of surprise in his tone, looking down at the hand gripping his arm. “Um, well…”� Halfway-risen, he nods sheepishly towards the door on the other side of the room, where Lana is waiting for him. A sigh of exasperation escapes her as she lets go of his arm and leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and her arms against her chest. He raises an eyebrow, and in an instant the sheepishness is gone and the telltale smirk back in place when he says, “I wasn’t aware you’re so keen on keeping me around.”� 

 

“Please,”� she scoffs, and shoves a few slips of parchment toward him. “You don’t honestly expect me to figure all this out alone, do you, _Head Boy_? Or have you already forgotten your _responsibilities_?”� He opens his mouth to counter her, but she only feels months of pent-up frustration burst inside her and continues before he can speak, “I knew this was going to happen. I _knew_ it. Listen, Potter, you’re not half-arsing your way through the year with this, are we clear? I haven’t the faintest why the _hell_ you were chosen, but it’s only the second week of school and the workload as Heads is only bound to increase from here on out. I’m _not_ having–”�

 

“ _Okay_ , okay, relax,”� he disrupts, his cool demeanor clearly interrupted. She is slightly taken aback at his instantaneous change of mood when he irritably bites out, “Just let me take care of my fucking girlfriend, all right, Super Head Girl? Jesus _Christ_.”�

 

Lily nods with narrowed eyes, unappreciative of his vulgarity, and rather conspicuously watches him approach Lana; she wants to get these duties done and over so she can finish a neglected Transfiguration essay awaiting her in her dormitory. James’ back is turned on her, but Lana is mostly visible. She frowns–then smiles, then James bends down to kiss her. Lily wonders how James can possibly _imply_ the things he implies to Lily the moment before–talk of dimming the bloody lights and ridding of ‘mood killers’–when Lana is just opposite the way, although she figures he’s only trying to get a rise out of her.

 

Inexplicably, she feels but utter annoyance for Lana as she parts with James and waves goodbye to Lily, who dons a smile and waves back. The two have been on good terms since Lily started tutoring her last year, but she admittedly ( _and unjustly_ , says a little voice) finds her less intelligent now that she’s chosen to date Potter. She supposes she’s never been avid on public displays of affection, so throwing James Potter in with that, strangely enough, makes her want to gouge her eyes out with a jagged-edged knife.

 

“So,”� begins James, dropping back into his seat, and it stuns Lily to see even a trace of antagonism with the ‘Super Head Girl’ immediately forgotten. The way he glowers and then grins at her–she honestly wonders if he suffers from mood swings. “Back to calling me Potter?”�

 

“What?”�

 

“ _You_ called me James the other day,”� he says, grinning. “Been meaning to ask you about it…it was totally bizarre. The _Daily Prophet_ went wild when they heard.”�

 

Lily makes a nauseated face. “A slip of the tongue, I’m sure.”�

 

“Ah, my favorite kind of slip,”� he says, raising a suggestive eyebrow. He leans toward Lily a bit and says mock-informatively, “Detention slips, however, are less fun.”�

 

For a second, Lily is tempted to laugh, but she doesn’t. 

 

“Possibly the worst play-on-words I’ve heard all term,”� she says flatly. “Let’s just do the schedules and get out of here, shall we?”�

 

“Of course it’s possible,”� he replies, not affected in the least. “Everything is possible. And Merlin, Evans, you’re a bossy little cow today, did you know that? An empty classroom is no place for a domineering attitude–the bedroom, however…”�

 

“Stop!”� she cries, holding her hands to her ears. It never ceases to amaze her the ways in which Potter finds a means to be both outright insulting and sexually suggestive within the same breath. “Please _stop_! Whatever habits you have in the bedroom, Potter, is between you and–and… er… well, Lana, I guess,”� she finishes uncomfortably, turning slightly red. This is about the moment when Lily feels a palpable awkwardness, and she is further annoyed when it’s evident that James does not. He merely grins.

 

“Nah, she’s not really the domineering type,”� he says. He eyes the parchment in front of him quizzically. “So what do we do with these?”� The change in subject is so abrupt that it takes Lily a moment to readjust her thoughts.

 

“Um. These are just dates and times,”� she explains, passing him one that reads in a tight, curly scribble: ‘ _Can’t do Mondays or Wednesdays–Fridays are preferred. Thanks! — Sienna Feldman, sixth-year Hufflepuff._ ’ “Mostly they’re from sixth and seventh year Prefects. It’s too early on for fifth years to take any initiative, really, so we can stick them wherever. And, generally, the male and female of the same year and house patrol together.”�

 

“I knew that.”� He grins, and Lily contemplates digging her fingers into the side of his mouth and ripping it off his face. “Late hours, dark castle. You’re pretty much stuck with me.”�

 

She sighs. “You just don’t _quit_ , do you?”�

 

“Relax, Evans. You know I’m only trying to get a rise out of you,”� he replies, looking down and inspecting his fingernails. “Besides, I have a girlfriend.”�

 

“I knew that.”�

 

He looks up, and Lily notices, perhaps for the first time, that James has distinctly hazel-colored eyes, a trait she has never bothered to acknowledge until now. “Of course you do,”� he says simply.

 

“Right.”� A somewhat awkward silence envelops them for a moment. Finally, she says, “So let’s fill out the calendars, yeah?”� He nods, thankfully without a word, and silence fills the room once more, though the scratching of quills and shuffling of parchment make it less obvious. After several minutes, James interrupts the quiet.

 

“So, how’s Maya?”�

 

Lily stops writing. She eyes James warily. “Why do you ask?”�

 

He rolls his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘why do you ask?’ Ugh, McDougal’s good, but Maya’s better. Or she was.”�

 

“What–McDougal–who?”� she asks bemusedly, and freezes upon realization. She glares at him. “Oh, _honestly_ –Quidditch? Don’t you have any moral fiber, Potter?”�

 

“Yes, in fact,”� he replies. “Actually, I have ‘commendable moral strength,’ according to Dumbledore.”�

 

Her mouth drops open, partly because of his insensitivity, and also because Dumbledore had written the same comment in her letter, which makes her Head Girl appointment seem less genuine. “You’re… a thoughtless prat,”� she settles lamely, and resumes her work. She hears him continuing with his as well, although minutes later, he interrupts her again.

 

“They caught one of the Death Eaters, you know,”� he says quietly.

 

She looks up. “What?”�

 

“Aurors–they caught the one that killed Maya’s sister–well, found. He was dead, and actually, technically he wasn’t a true Death Eater. No Dark Mark–probably because he was brainless. Backfired curse from a faulty wand, they think it was. Not even a duel; just lost in the chaos of the attack–geniuses, Voldemort’s lot, really.”� He glares at nothing in particular, and doesn’t flinch when Lily gasps slightly at the sound of Voldemort’s name. She considers asking him how he knows this information; it seems both too specific and unimportant in the eyes of a reporter to be published in the Wizarding papers. He looks at Lily, and asks gently, “Do you think Maya knows?”�

 

“What difference does it make?”� she sighs, rubbing her temple with a tired hand. “Is it supposed to cheer her up or something?”�

 

James smiles sadly. “I guess you’re right…. I’m sorry. You probably miss her. I mean, she’s obviously still here–unlike some people–but she’s not _here_. Everyone… can see it.”� Lily nods her head slightly, absently stroking the feather of her quill. He sighs. “Still, I think she should come back to the team. It’d help her, if anything. Quidditch is… therapeutic.”�

 

She feels daring. “How so?”�

 

He shakes his head. “I’ve tried explaining it to people–but you won’t understand if you have to ask. It just is. Trust me on that, Evans.”� For lack of anything profound to say, and also for her current revulsion of anything that has to do with flying, she nods. Suddenly, it occurs to Lily that she has never actually had a real conversation with James Potter before. Taunts and jeers and fruitless arguments aside, this may be the first legitimate one. Before they can continue, James stands up and hands her his half of the calendar–fully completed and somewhat neat. Lily raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. He raises his hand to his brow and salutes her. “Godspeed, Evans,”� he says, and dashes out the door before she comprehends what he’s doing. 

 

She thinks of Maya, disappearing into the dormitory; Remus, disappearing from the common room; Emmeline, making no appearance at all; Petunia, disappearing altogether; and James, disappearing from their first meeting of the year. She wonders what it is that always leaves her alone, completely still.

\-----

Lily categorizes everyone she knows into one of three types of people.

 

First and foremost, there are people for whom, if they were murdered, Lily would be exceedingly devastated. This group includes her parents, Maya, Emmeline, and even Petunia (she reasons–falsely–that she feels this way purely because Petunia is blood-related). The next class exists of people for whom, if they were murdered, Lily would be legitimately distraught, but would likely recover in a logical amount of time. This group consists of people like her professors, friends as opposed to best friends, and she supposes, many of her classmates. The third group of people is comprised of those for whom, if they were murdered, Lily would be sad, but only in the obligatory sense, and she would be otherwise completely unaffected. These people are most often the ones she has only met once or twice, mere acquaintances, or people that simply have no impression on her life. She discounts the people she finds disagreeable to a whole other index of categories.

 

She runs through this list in her head as she sits in the Gryffindor common room with Casey Richards, a fifth-year that she tutors who has an unfortunate deficiency in Charms ability. She curls her legs up, tucks her knees under her chin, and blows the hair away from her face. Waiting for Casey to finish reading the section in his textbook, she decides Casey–who, despite being a nice person, she thinks pityingly, is utterly unremarkable–would limbo between the second and third group.

 

Lily isn’t sure when she began making lists, but she does so for several types of circumstances. She has found that she has become the type of person to assess every situation with meticulous observation, or else give it too little thought and act on impulse alone. As she has grown over the years, she has become so careful about thinking before acting that it is all she does–except when she doesn’t think at all, and she can never think just _enough_ , never let anything _be_. If she thinks too much, she’s already thinking too much. If she thinks too little, she’ll mull over it, whatever _it_ is, for too long in the hours after. She finds it difficult to reach a balance. Her mother affectionately calls it a ‘Goldilocks complex,’ but Lily cannot help it; it is simply what she does.

 

“I’m done,”� Casey says, looking up from his textbook. “What now?”�

 

Lily reaches over and takes the book from Casey’s lap. “Well, now we can perform the spell. But first, explain to me what you’ve just read–in your own words.”� His expression falls, and Lily expects as much. “Casey,”� she begins, sighing. “What are you _thinking_ about when you read this stuff?”�

 

“I don’t know,”� he says. “I zone out. I can’t really help it; it’s just what I do.”�

 

He can’t help it. It’s what he does.

 

She hands him back the textbook. “Try again,”� she says, and closes her eyes.

\-----

The blankets are heavy on her body, and the pillows are too warm underneath her head. She is totally self-aware in the moment, and her stillness is too obvious and makes her itchy in unsuspecting places–the bottom of her left foot, the crooks of her elbows, the nape of her neck–the way consciousness of one’s own immobility usually does. She grumbles, pushing the comforter off her body.

 

It is silent. Confined within the curtains of her four-poster bed, the snoring of her roommates is low and indistinct, not loud enough to qualify as anything but a quiet background buzz. It always takes Lily several weeks to get back into the cycle of falling asleep to silence; in the summer, she sinks into slumber to the strangely soothing sounds of the fictional romantic spats between actors playing lovers on television. She never quite watches them, Petunia’s favorite late-night soaps, but the jumbled sounds of dramatic voices from the television always lure her to sleep. Lily supposes there is something comforting in the distraction that makes her naturally drowsy.

 

There are no televisions here. Sometimes she wishes there were. Sometimes she thinks the little Muggle comforts are preferable.

 

Then, sometimes she wonders if her father–the doctor, a man of logic and science and numbers–ever shoves every paper and device off his worktable in frustration for what he knows. If, ever, in the midst of working on a particularly difficult quandary, scanning papers and books to conclude a patient’s complicated diagnosis, he stops. Because his seventeen-year-old daughter can turn a bar of soap into a bar of metal, appear and disappear with a flick of a wooden stick, and close paper-cuts and make bruises fade with a murmured phrase–and all of this, he has seen firsthand. So what’s the point of science? What are doctors, when there are Healers? What is chemistry, when there are potions? What is science, when there is _magic_?

 

She feels guilty, and she knows she shouldn’t, but how can she not when her whole being defies her father’s entire career? The guilt wears off when she realizes magic and non-magic are two _exclusively_ different worlds, and the collision between the two does not exist except for people like her. And also, she knows she is unquestionably on the magical side, no matter what her family or origin; there is nothing she can or would do to change this, it is as much her choice as it is her fate. It’s one of those things Lily will always find surprising for herself, being a witch–eventually and ultimately piled in with things like falling in love and getting married so young, having James Potter’s baby, having to hide from the Dark Lord–these are the events she never predicted beforehand.

 

_Oxymoron,_ she thinks, mulling over her predicament. ‘ _Jumbo shrimp.’ ‘New and improved.’ ‘Muggle-born witch.’_

 

Sighing, she brings the comforter back around her legs; she cannot fall asleep without something covering her body. Rolling over and burying her face in a pillow, sleep finds her at last as she imagines the faraway voices of two acting lovers in tragic soap opera.

\-----

She thinks Remus is an overall good person.

 

The boy is sweet, kind, and smart. He’s always tired-looking, but somehow still full of life, especially when accompanied by his friends. He’s a companion to Lily, and even more so to Maya, which Lily is grateful for. He would be a more acceptable type of handsome if it weren’t for the bizarre scars on his body, but Lily doesn’t care to ask where they came from. He owes her no explanation, and she rather likes them. They give him _character_. Sometimes, she wants to reach forward and trace the scars on his face with her fingers. Maybe they would disappear beneath her touch.

 

She tilts her head at the paper in front of her, admiring her work: a charcoal drawing of the Great Hall, a piece of art for four tables and eight colors in only shades of gray. She’s been coming early to breakfast all week to finish it; the room looks more beautiful when bare of people. In her drawing, there are three students at the Slytherin table, five at Ravenclaw, two at Hufflepuff, and one at Gryffindor, excluding herself. From the perspective at which she’s drawn, Remus Lupin gets the close-up, the house tables shrinking in perception until the exit of the extravagant wooden doors.

 

She pushes the thick paper forth. “Done,”� she says. Remus drops his fork and takes the drawing in his hands. Observing it, he smiles. 

 

“Wow. You even got this one,”� he says, looking up at her and running a finger over a fading, jagged pink line just under his eyebrow. Like a good friend, she doesn’t ask where it came from. “Very impressive; you’ve got quite a knack for art, Lily.”� He holds it out to hand it back to her. She shakes her head.

 

“Keep it,”� she insists. “I don’t have any place to put it. Our walls are already covered in my–”�

 

“Moony! Grand morning, isn’t it?”�

 

She is cut-off by James Potter’s greeting, and instinctively she glares at him as he slides into the seat across from her. Unaffected, he smiles at her.

 

“Evans! You’re looking particularly authoritative today.”�

 

“Potter! You’re looking particularly viral today,”� she replies, smiling with a lethal sweetness.

 

“Touché,”� he allows, and lets out a brief, quiet laugh. 

 

Lily admits that he has a nice laugh, truth be told, a laugh of life and of heart, if ever there was one. Even with the smallest chuckle, a simple breath of amusement, he radiates beauty and magnificence. She thinks that it is _just like_ James Potter to give himself fully into this physical indication of happiness. Occasionally, she wants to reach out and touch his laughter like she wants to touch Remus’ scars.

 

_You can’t touch laughter, stupid_ , she thinks, and even more stupidly, _Especially not his._

 

James has ceased laughing, and as he spoons scrambled eggs onto his plate he examines Lily’s drawing, flat on the table between Remus’ and her plates.

 

“That’s brilliant, Lily,”� he says, and she notes the use of her first name. It might be the third or fourth time she’s ever heard him say it. She is tempted to point it out as he did days before, but decides against it. He looks at her expectantly, doubtlessly awaiting a ‘Thank you.’

 

“How do you know I drew that?”� she says instead, feeling catty and stupid. There are only two other people at the table, after all–one of them a friend, and the other known to be a bit artistic–but she is not accustomed to being polite to James Potter. He frowns, followed almost instantly by a glare.

 

“You’re welcome,”� he answers dryly. 

 

“People shouldn’t bicker this early in the morning,”� Remus cuts in.

 

“I think I’ll go see if Maya’s awake,”� Lily says before James can reply, rising from her seat. “Keep the drawing, Remus, okay? See you in class.”�

 

As she walks away she hears James call, “Love you too, Evans!”� and his laughter follows her out the door.

 

_You can’t touch laughter,_ she thinks again, her heels hitting the ground with pointed _clicks_. Later, when they’re married and entangled in each other’s limbs at three in the morning, she’ll bashfully confess to him, “I used to want to touch your laugh. Is that silly?”� and bury her face in the crook of his neck to evade his reaction and hide her embarrassment at the utter ridiculousness of the statement. She’ll await the laughter in question, the sparkling sound that means truth and beauty and everything good–but it doesn’t come. He will twirl her hair between his fingers and let her remain in that position, expelling warm air onto his neck, and he’ll kiss her temple as he tells her, “No, it’s not. It’s very _Lily_ of you, really. And what do you mean, ‘used to’? Don’t you still?”�

 

And, her mouth pressed against the skin of his neck, she will smile.

\-----

Lily has weighed her options, and with little dignity and a load of courage, she has come to a decision. He is definitely her safest bet; it seems to be the general consensus that he is indeed the most skilled in their house, if not their year and the bloody school for all she’s heard. It’s either this or failure, really. In all likelihood, he’ll disagree–but there is something unfathomable that tells Lily that he won’t refuse her, and this flimsy perception is her driving motivation as she eyes the common room searchingly.

 

She sights one Marauder easily–Peter Pettigrew playing chess with Alexia Pope in a more crowded area. Her female seventh-year roommates, Viola Lang and Charlie Meadows, wave to her as she passes them walking into the common room. She smiles at them in acknowledgement–and then she spots him in an armchair in front of the fire, shockingly alone. He appears to be writing with focus on a scroll of parchment, using a thick textbook as a writing surface. She approaches him gingerly.

 

“Er… Potter,”� she says quietly, and forces a smile. He looks up from his parchment, appearing mildly surprised, then relaxing upon recognition. Lily distinguishes his messy writing in the format of a letter as he stops writing. She frowns inwardly, hoping to have caught him studying for once in his life. The firelight dances on his face; his lips seem darker and his cheeks change shades with the moving flames. His glasses are shiny, and she thinks his eyes are speckled with the color of firewood as it burns.

 

“Lily Evans,”� he drawls, enunciating every syllable of her name. He leans back into his chair and props an ankle over the knee of his other leg, languid and unwound as always. “What can I do for you?”�

 

“Small favor. _Microscopic_ favor, actually,”� she says, and takes a deep breath. “I was wondering…well, it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of…and obviously — just so we’re clear — I would _never_ ask you for anything. However… I don’t know, apparently you’re good at this sort of thing…”� 

 

“Evans?”� The corners of his lips twitch upward.

 

Swallowing any pride she has left, she asks him, “Can you teach me how to fly?”�

\-----

**a/n:** And there’s chapter two… I think this is the length you might expect for future chapters, give or take a few hundred words. Reviews are much appreciated, dear readers. My imagination responds to that sort of thing, of course… 


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